


Boot Marks Where You'd Been, Part 3

by norgbelulah



Series: Boot Marks Where You'd Been [3]
Category: Justified
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Criminals, Multi, OT3, Past Abuse, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>This isn’t a sacrifice, Boyd. This isn’t the fall of a desperate man. It’s a decision. Plain and simple. Because the alternative is something I can’t even contemplate.</i>
</p>
<p>Through the hills and the hollers and the ever present sun and sand of Miami, these three are drawn to each other, and they'll do anything to hold fast.</p>
<p>In the final installment, Raylan embarks on a new life with Boyd and Ava and Art Mullen investigates just why his old friend would leave the Marshals behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [It Never Ends the Way We Had It Planned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/297178) by [norgbelulah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norgbelulah/pseuds/norgbelulah). 



“You found him,” Dan Grant says right away when he picks up the phone.

Chief Deputy Art Mullen, looks over a file of surveillance photos, sighs, and answers, “Well, he surfaced anyway.”

“Where?”

“Harlan. And around. Looks like he's been serving as some kind of body man to Crowder and his wife.” 

Art glances over a photo of former Deputy Raylan Givens, still in that goddamn hat, with his hand under the elbow of Mrs. Boyd Crowder, helping her exit a vehicle parked just outside the offices of their legitimate business ventures in Lexington. Raylan’s face can only be seen in profile, but Ava Crowder’s is at a three-quarter view and she’s looking up at Raylan with a real nice smile on her face.

The photo was taken about a month after Raylan, who’d just been transferred up to Lexington from Miami, walked into Art’s office, removed his badge and service weapon, and laid them down on Art’s desk.

“What the hell is this, Raylan?” Art had said, unable to even take the time to say a hello to his old teaching buddy.

“My resignation, Art,” Raylan replied and pulled the form out of his jacket pocket, attached to the requisite letter, and laid it down next to his gun.

There had been no talking him out of it, no questions asked or answered. The only thing Art could get him to say was, “If I gotta be in Kentucky, Art, I can’t be a damn Marshal, all right?”

He looked jumpy, or nervous about something, though Art was sure it wasn’t being in the office, doing this crazy-ass thing. He put his hands near his hips, allowing for the holster and weapon that were no longer there, and sort of missed. He let his arms fall to his sides after that and said he needed to borrow a car. He’d sold his in Miami.

Art isn’t even sure now why he’d let him, maybe just old times. A state trooper found it the next day, parked and wiped of prints on a highway going north out of Harlan. Art was sure until Tim handed him these photos that he’d sent Raylan Givens to his fucking death in that car.

“Oh, shit,” Dan grinds out over the line. 

Art does not like the sound of that. “What do you mean by that, Dan?”

“You got some calls from Raylan, didn’t you, about a year and a half ago, when the Crowders came down to Miami?”

“Just one call, actually. I thought he’d follow up, but when he didn’t I always assumed they didn’t move anybody and just went back north.”

Art’s got a bad feeling that only gets worse as Dan continues, “Well, that’s true, but Raylan also didn’t stay point on them for the whole time they were down here. He made me hand it off to another deputy. Said he was too close, that it was a personal thing.”

“He said what?” Art exploded. “And you didn’t think it was pertinent to tell me that? Dan, I’m gonna let you know right now, nothing goes on in this jurisdiction that the Crowders don’t know about or have their goddamn hands in. Raylan knows that as well as I do.”

“I figured he could work that shit out with you. I didn’t think he was going to get up there and go fucking work for them. Tell me, Art, did you ever have an inkling that Raylan would ever be the guy to flip? Sure, we all saw him toe the line, but he’s got a code as much as anybody else in the service.”

“He have that code when he put one in Tommy Bucks?” Art can’t help but ask. What if he’d been working for the Crowders even then? What if they’d got him in their pocket somehow--old connections, bribery, blackmail--a year and a half ago? 

“Goddammit, Art,” Dan growls.

Art doesn’t let him get in another word. “Theses are things I have to think about now, Grant. You put him in this position, one I’m not entirely sure he would have taken had it not been shoved down his throat by you and headquarters, and now who knows what they have on him, or he has on us, or what the fuck is going to happen. Jesus H. Christ.”

There’s an extended pause over the line, followed by a stony request, “You’ll let me know, then, when you find out any more?”

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to, if only to rub it in your goddamn face,” Art says and hangs up the phone.

He waves Tim into his office the next time he walks by and gives him back the file of photos. “I want you to stay on this. Find out as much as you can.”

Tim makes sort of a worried face in Art’s direction. Art can tell the kid gets why Raylan’s whereabouts are important, but not why Art is so deeply concerned. He sighs, rubbing his eyes, and tells him, “This guy’s an old friend of mine, in addition to a loss for this office. I need you on this to help me figure out just what the hell is going on and how big a shitstorm it’s going to be, all right?”

“Sure thing, Art,” Tim says and goes to work on it.

 

Helen gets a call from Ava Crowder about a month and a half after she heard from Raylan that he’d been looking for them, and then nothing else.

It’s a courtesy call that she gets more than anything. “Oh, we thought we’d stop by, to catch up, Helen,” she says brightly. “I’ll bring a pie, you don’t have to do anything. But, just,” and she pauses and Helen knows this is the important thing, “make sure Arlo is there.”

When Helen gets off the phone, she grabs the nearest heavy thing, the yellow pages, and chucks it at him, yelling, “What the hell did you do?”

She spends the rest of the day cleaning the house.

When the doorbell rings, just after dusk, she straightens her skirt, not too nice so they won’t think she dressed up special, and opens the door to them. Her jaw drops when she sees Raylan lurking in the shadows behind the King and Queen of Harlan County. But she can’t say anything to him before Ava’s stepping forward with an open armed embrace, saying things about how long it’s been and why don’t they see each other more.

Helen takes her pie, pecan by the look, and smiles at Boyd. 

“Miss Helen,” he says politely, but there’s something hard in his eyes that she doesn’t like, an anger he’s getting ready to uncover.

“Boyd,” she returns carefully. He’s never had her stand on ceremony with him and she always wondered if it was because of Raylan. She supposes she could ask now, as she eyes her wayward nephew, who looks simultaneously better and worse than she thinks she’s ever seen him, but decides against it.

Raylan says, almost completely ignoring her, “This is a stupid idea, Boyd,” and Helen nearly drops the pie. You don’t say shit like that to Boyd fucking Crowder, not in this county, not for years. But he continues like it’s nothing, “Ain’t gonna change anything.”

Boyd doesn’t seem to acknowledge the disrespect. He’s looking further into the house, looking for Arlo. “It’s sure as hell gonna make me feel better, Raylan.”

Raylan makes a noise like they already had this conversation once and he still lost.

Ava’s smile has become strained. “Let’s cut into this thing,” she says hastily. “It’s my mama’s recipe.” She pulls at Helen’s shoulder, pushing them all to move further into the house. Raylan’s looking around like he can’t stand to be there--she wouldn’t blame him for that at all--and Boyd’s eyes are darting around corners like he’s waiting for Arlo to jump out with a weapon trained on him.

Helen goes to the kitchen drawer for a knife and she notices Raylan’s eyes on her. What the hell, she thinks, and hands it over to him, handle first. “You wanna do it?” she asks.

Boyd turns in the doorway to the living room, where Arlo is sitting, probably fighting to get up from his chair. “You comin’ in for this or not?” he asks cryptically, almost impatiently.

Raylan eyes him like he did Helen’s knife. But Ava breaks in and says, “He’s gonna cut the pie for us, baby.”

Raylan almost smiles and there’s something strange, sort of fond in it. “I’ll come in a minute.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Raylan,” Boyd says. To Helen’s ears the name sounds like an endearment now. She leans back against the counter and wonders.

Raylan cuts the pie as Ava helps herself to a seat at the table. “How are you, Miss Helen?” she asks, watching Raylan’s hands a little too carefully.

“Fine, Ava,” she says and sets down the plates and forks that she’s gathered, sitting as well. This is obviously where she’s wanted. If they thought she should be present for Arlo’s dressing down, or whatever the hell this was, she’d already be in there.

She can hear Boyd’s voice, speaking softly, “How’ve you been, Arlo?” There’s that edge again to it and Helen shivers. It’s a small house and the walls are thin. Everyone in the place knows that.

With the pie cut into too-large slices, Raylan plants himself in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, the same spot at which Boyd asked him to join. He doesn’t move any farther in, just leans himself up against the frame, hip cocked, arms crossed. There’s a gun at his belt, but no badge. She can’t believe he hasn’t called her yet about all this. She can’t believe she didn’t know.

Arlo makes some kind of noise at the sight of Raylan and Helen closes her eyes in resignation. They’re going to kill him over something, if not what he’s already done, then for what’s about to come flying out of his no account, idiot mouth. She’ll never understand what it is about the boy that gets him going so hard.

Before Arlo can say anything, Raylan growls at him, “Don’t you open that fool mouth, Arlo. It’s nice you’re surprised to see me, but Boyd, here, ain’t in any mood to take your shit.”

“Takin’ your time in arresting him, ain’t you, _lawman_ ,” Arlo practically spits as Ava asks over him, serving Helen one of the slices, “Get much gardening done yet this year?”

Helen shakes her head and takes a bite of pie so she doesn’t have to speak. Ava gives her an understanding smile. Helen’s got the message, she’s in here, she’s not to say anything, she’s not to interfere. She’s glad they didn’t try to keep her from the house. She thinks that was probably Ava’s doing.

“I don’t do that anymore, Arlo,” Raylan says. “Now pay attention.”

"What do you mean, boy, you don't--"

"Now, Arlo," Boyd says, too much care in his tone. "We ain't here to talk about Raylan. We're here to talk about you." There's a pause and Helen's knows Boyd must have done something to shut the old man up. There must be a weapon in his hand, a look on his face. 

Ava sets down her fork and folds her hands in front of her. Her eyes are on the table, her mouth a grim line. Raylan glances at them both from the door, but turns back as soon as Boyd speaks again. 

"You see, Arlo, you stole something from me--"

"I never did--"

There's a bang, a hand slammed down on the table, and Helen grips tight to her chair to stop from jumping as Boyd growls, "Don't you throw me no denials, Arlo Givens, you don't remember taking a shit if you've crawled far enough into a bottle. I know what you did and you're going to answer for it tonight."

Raylan lets out a sigh then and says in a low voice, “Tell him what you’re talkin’ about, Boyd. He don’t remember.” Helen hasn’t heard so much Harlan in his voice in years. 

She glances over at Ava, who’s got her eyes pinned to his back, and wonders some more.

There’s a sound of movement now, a slight scuffling, the rustle of moving fabric and suppressed effort. Raylan shifts and puts his hand on his weapon, but Boyd seems to have things well in hand, because he takes no step forward. Helen can even see the corner of a smile.

Boyd speaks now, very slowly, like he’s talking to a particularly stupid child, “Arlo, what do you think a reasonable man might do, if he saw his son, still a boy, walking up the road late at night with his friend, a boy of similar age and demeanor?"

Arlo says nothing, but there is the sound of an intaken breath, as though he thought to, but was convinced somehow to stay silent.

“What do you think, Arlo,” Boyd continues and Helen starts to get a sinking feeling in her stomach, specifically at the way Raylan’s back has gone rigid and Ava hasn’t looked anywhere but at the back of his head for several minutes. “What do you think a reasonable man might think, if those two boys were all wet, and if, when you asked, they said they were just swimming?"

Now Arlo speaks, thick and angry, almost petulant, “He'd wonder if they was fuckin' fags." Helen closes her eyes and raises her hands to her face. She starts praying for something, but she doesn’t know quite what, or for whom.

Boyd slams his hand down on the table again and she can only wonder what his face looks like. His tone is almost jovial, mocking, when he says to Arlo, “He might, at that. He just might, Arlo, but don't you think a reasonable man might also wait to accuse? Wait to pull out his shotgun and scare that other boy away? Wait, until he knows for goddamn sure, before he beats his boy's, his own fucking son’s, head so hard the memory of something truly good and intensely beautiful gets knocked right out of him?"

Arlo starts jabbering something like a “yes,” and but stops at the sound of furniture being moved, shoved more like, across the floor. Boyd must have come up on him. Raylan is very tense, but still unmoving. 

“You stole something beautiful from me, Arlo,” Boyd says and there’s real loss in his voice, the memory of terrible heartbreak. “It was a long time ago, but I came here, goddamn it, for restitution.”

“I’m so--” Arlo begins.

Raylan almost steps forward then, visibly holding himself back and growling, “Shut up. He ain’t interested in that.”

There’s a noise of something being flipped open, a little click. Boyd’s got a knife in there and Helen digs her nails into the table.

“You know, Arlo,” Boyd says softly, “I was going to kill you for your transgression, but your son, Raylan, here, convinced me not to.”

Helen is certain she’s the one who makes the loudest keen of relief in the wake of those words, she couldn’t hold it down. 

“So what I am going to do, is ask you, very kindly,” at that Arlo makes a throaty noise, the knife must be next to his skin, “to offer Raylan your everlasting thanks, for the gift of your miserable, good-for-nothing life.”

“Boyd,” Raylan sighs, dragging the hand not still on his weapon across the back of his neck. “Come on--”

“Come on, nothing, Raylan. We’ve got a charge and we found him guilty, what we need now is a sentence. I won’t be satisfied otherwise.”

Raylan says nothing, so Boyd prompts, “Arlo?”

Arlo’s speech is thick with fear, shot through and broken. “I-I thank you, s-”

“Not that word,” Raylan cuts in, deadly and snarling.

“Thank you, Raylan,” Arlo chokes instead.

“For what?” Boyd asks through what must be gritted teeth. Arlo hesitates and Boyd must move the knife because he sucks in a deep breath as Boyd purrs, “What did I say, Arlo?”

“T-thank you, Raylan, f-for the gift of my miserable, good-for-nothin’ life.”

There is a tumbling sound, a thumping on the hardwood floor and slowly measured footsteps walking away. 

Boyd steps towards the kitchen, his face a stony mask, and Helen thinks he’s going to pass right by Raylan, his work finished, but he stops next to him and raises his hand, fingers curled, to brush the back of them under Raylan’s jaw and trace a line with the edge of his thumb across the skin just behind his ear, left exposed by that white hat. 

Raylan shivers, eyes and head tilted down, and Helen hears a strangled growl from the floor in the other room, even as she lets out her own little gasp.

She’d wondered and she’d thought, but now she knew. And she knew she wasn’t going to get anything other than that as an admission.

No one speaks until Boyd drops his hand and passes through the doorway. He smiles down at Helen, like nothing at all just happened, and he says, “I’m so sorry we can’t stay longer, Helen. You know how it is.”

Ava stands, blinking twice real fast, like there was something in her eyes for just a moment, then she raises a hand to her hair, like it needs fixing, smooths her skirt, and says, “We’ll leave you the pie, of course. Don’t even worry about the pan. I got a bunch just lyin’ around at the house.” She can’t do a fake smile like Boyd can, not over this, but she’s trying mighty hard.

They all look at Raylan, who’s still staring hard at the floor of the living room, undoubtedly at the man still lying there. But he turns finally and gives only Helen his boyhood “I’m sorry about the mess” look. He crosses the room and leans over the table to kiss her cheek. When he pulls back he says, “I’ll be by next week to pick up the pan anyway. We can talk some then, all right?”

She nods and gives him a weak smile and a hard eye. She watches him pull his arm around Ava Crowder’s waist, in full view of her husband, as they walk out the door, all three, together.

She goes upstairs after she hears them drive away, unable to even contemplate looking at Arlo. She lays in bed and blinks back tears and wishes and prays and, oh, how she regrets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art's investigation continues and Winona receives an unexpected visitor.

“Well, he’s staying with them for sure,” Tim says, pulling out another file of pictures and laying them across Art’s desk.

“Where? Lexington?” Art asks before he even gets a good look.

“Well, yeah, but in Harlan, too,” Tim replies, pointing at the picture on the top of the stack. It’s dark and blurry, pixelated too, from a narrow zoom, but there is a picture of Raylan standing on their porch in one of those wife beater t-shirts and no shoes, in too cold weather to be doing anything but staying inside.

Art frowns, deeply. “No one stays in that house,” he says. It’s only ever been just Crowder and his wife. They’re real particular. They’ve known that for a while. “Either they really like him, or some deep shit is going on with them right now they need a body man twenty-four seven, even in Harlan.”

Tim shrugs. “That’s hard to tell. No one looks overly stressed. There hasn’t been any flurry of activity or any significant rise or drop in man power. He just goes everywhere with them. If they separate, about eight times out of ten he goes with the missus. Once in awhile, he’ll go someplace on his own. Mostly in Lexington, mostly it’s to get ice cream from a convenience store, I shit you not, Art.”

“Well, he hasn’t changed that much, then.”

Tim rolls his eyes, like he’s already over Raylan’s bullshit and says, “I think he knows he’s got a tail. I’ve only lost him twice, but both times he was with Crowder and only Crowder. But I’ve never seen him do anything that crosses any state, federal, or moral lines. They go to meetings, which I can never get a vantage on, they go out to eat sometimes, and they go home. He always goes with them.”

“What does he do with the missus when it’s only them?”

Tim sort of laughs at that. “Mostly they go shoppin’. When they’re in a store with big windows, I can get a look. He usually just looks bored, but I think she thinks it’s funny.”

Art wipes a hand across his mouth. He’s looking down at a slightly better picture of Raylan and Ava Crowder in one of those upscale places Downtown at Victorian Square. He’s sprawled out on some kind of cushy lounge furniture, his ridiculous legs all over the place, and she’s standing, hands on her hips across the room in front of a mirror. They’re looking at each other, but their faces are hard to make out. “From what you can see,” he asks, looking hard up at Tim, “what’s the relationship like between these two?”

Tim sits back in his chair. “You mean, do I think they’re screwin’?”

“Not necessarily, but do you?”

“Well, from the way they are, I find it hard to believe that they’re not. Although, from Crowder’s reputation, I find it hard to believe that they’re that stupid, that he wouldn’t know, and that, if he did know, he’d let it slide.”

Art pages through the stack of pictures, finds one of them all together, climbing into a car after some kind of social event. Ava’s got a dress on that’s she’s got to hike up to get in, Raylan’s got a hand on her back, not suggestively, but like just his touch is going to ward off harm, his eyes are on the street, but Boyd Crowder’s eyes are on him and he doesn’t look pissed at all.

“Well, if Raylan can surprise us--”

“Surprise you, you mean,” Tim interjects. “I think this guy’s an asshole.”

Art gives him a withering look. “Maybe Crowder can too.”

Tim gives another shrug like he could care less and doesn’t get why Art would. “You want me to stay on him?”

“For now. If something else comes up, we’ll revisit priorities.”

As Tim shuts the door behind him, Art lets himself let out a long sigh. He just wants to figure this shit out. It makes no goddamn sense to him whatsoever.

 

Winona’s only been home for about a minute when there is a knock on her door. Not the doorbell, just a knock, but loud enough she can hear it from the kitchen, where she'd just set down her back and the stack of files she'd taken home with her.

She opens the door, expecting some kind of door-to-door situation, and comes face to face with Raylan.

He looks good, like really good, in a suit nicer than she's ever seen him in before, all dark, sleek wool, and pressed shirt and tie. He's still got the hat, and that "hey, isn't it nice to see you" smile, but she knows better than to look for a badge.

Art had been to see her, about a month after Raylan came to Lexington to resign from the Marshals, just after they found out what he'd got himself into. He told her the story and told her to watch out for him, "just in case," Art had said. 

She never expected to find him at her goddamn front door.

"Hey, Winona," he says, like he sees her every other day. He's got a hand braced on her door frame, and the other not far from the gun he's still carrying.

"Raylan," she says, unable to get the surprise out of her voice. "Hey." There's a weird pause, and he looks like he's about to say something else but she gets in first with, "What are you doing here?"

He smiles. "Well, I imagine you mean, what am I doin' at your house and not, what am I doin' in Lexington, Kentucky and not Miami, Florida."

She tries to smile right back, like they used too, but she's finding it way too weird and she knows she's making that face like she doesn't want to eat what on her plate. It doesn't help that she hasn't heard so much Kentucky in Raylan's accent since they were still married and she asked him to tell her what Harlan really sounded like.

"Yeah," she tells him. "Art told me some things."

He looks past her into the house, then right back into her eyes. "May I come in?" he asks in a tone much too polite for him. She realizes suddenly, this isn't a vague, nostalgia driven social call. He wants something. 

"O-of course," she says, without thinking at all, and steps aside.

She leads him through to the kitchen, scrambling to move all her shit to the other side of the island, and motions to him to sit on one of the tall bar stools. "Want some coffee?" she asks.

He shrugs, in that way that, when she was already mad at him, would drive her crazy. "Sure." He smiles again and, for the first time, she wonders if, whatever his new life has become, it's actually making him happy.

She shakes off a shiver and set the pot to brew. "It'll just be a minute," she tells him, sitting down herself.

He looks at her, taking in her work clothes, a little rumpled from the wear of the day, then looks around the place. "It's nice," he says. "I like the," he sort of trails off there and points his finger, waving it around somewhere on the ceiling.

She has to stop herself from covering her mouth to suppress a laugh and says, "Thanks, Raylan." 

He smiles again like he knows he's being an idiot and it makes her wonder now, for just a moment, if he's trying to play her. She gives him a hard little look, straightening up in her chair, and says, "What do you need, Raylan?"

Now his smile is a lot more genuine. He always loved it, right at first, but sometimes not so much after, when she proved smarter than he'd thought she'd be about something. He'd always had the nasty habit of underestimating women. She never tried too hard to figure out where he'd learned it from.

"Is Gary around?" he asks simply.

She's about to tell him it's pretty obvious that Gary's not, or he'd be right in the room trying not to look pissed that Raylan's sitting in his kitchen, when Raylan's phone buzzes, loud, in his pocket.

He pulls it out and looks down at it, frowning. It's one of those fancy ones, with a touch screen, and it looks new. He looks up at her and asks, "You mind?"

She waves him on. "Go ahead." The coffee's about ready anyway, so she gets up and busies herself pouring it. 

She does allow herself to watch him though, as he takes the call. He steps away from the island, but not far into the next room. His eyes are on the floor as he answers, quietly, but not so quiet she can't hear, "Hey, anything wrong?" 

There's real concern in his voice and expression, that's alleviated immediately. He breaks into a relieved grin and slides a hand into his back pocket, kicking out sort of adorably with his right boot, heel to the floor, like he's not sure what to do with it otherwise.

The person on the other line must ask him something, because he shakes his head and answers, "No, no, that's not today, I'm on that thing-- Yeah, the one he wanted Wynn Duffy on." There's another pause and then he laughs, softly, but with genuine amusement. "No, that wouldn't have been very polite," he agrees, raising his hand to scratch at his neck. 

Winona puts down the pot before she drops it, ready to own that she is staring, because the Raylan Givens she is watching in her kitchen is miles away from the Raylan Givens that she cheated on, then divorced, and not far off from the one she married in something like a fever from that old song twelve years ago. 

He looks up and right back at her in the next moment. She sort of loses her breath when she catches the twinkle in his eye. She puts a hand on the counter for support. 

"Yeah, I'm with her now," he tells this mysterious, apparently similarly love-struck person and then he laughs again, "I do realize I'm being rude. Okay, later, honey."

He hangs up the phone and looks at her again, slipping it casually back into his pocket.

"Who was that?" she asks, unable to keep all of the strain from her tone. She plants a cup on the table at the seat where he'd been sitting, and sets her jar of sugar down next to it, in case he feels like taking some.

He makes a face like he might realize he gave himself away and says simply, "Ava."

All Winona can think is, _holy shit_. Ava Crowder. 

The Crowders, Art had said. He's working for the Crowders. 

He didn't say Raylan was all the way at the goddamn top. 

Then all she can think is what comes out of her mouth, as she blurts, "You're lookin' for Gary? _The Crowders_ are looking for _Gary_?"

Raylan makes a face at her like he’s a little pissed they actually have to talk about this now. He works his jaw for a minute then says, “He made a deal with somebody who works for them. The loan’s coming due and they know he can’t pay it.”

Winona’s heart is beating fast in her chest. She realizes she’s scared and she hates that it’s Raylan making her this way. “And this,” she says, something about to break in her voice, “this is what you do for them now?”

His eyes flash, in annoyance. “No,” he tells her firmly. “I’m here as a courtesy. Because it’s you. You really don’t want to talk to the guy they were going to send.”

“Well, Jesus, Raylan,” she shouts. “That makes me feel so much better!”

He winces a little, like he knows maybe he deserved that, and comes back over to the table, very slowly, with his hands raised. He sits in just the same way, and picks up the mug she set out for him. He doesn’t take any sugar. 

“Listen, Winona,” he says. “I’m just as surprised as you must be, but Gary’s not the sure bet everybody thought he was. This loan he’s got, it’s for a lot of money. A lot, okay? Even if he gets out of this,” when she looks up at him sharply, he raises a finger and says, “and I do aim to help you with that. So, let’s say when he does get out of this, he’s just gonna make another deal, another big gamble. He’s a smooth talker, sure, but he’s gonna have a hard time getting anything done in this town again.”

“What’s your point, Raylan?” There’s an edge to her voice that reminds her far too much of the end of their marriage.

“I’m just saying,” he’s trying real hard to keep his voice light, but she can tell by his eyes he’s sincerely worried about her. “You might want to start thinking about an exit strategy.”

“Oh, fuck you, Raylan,” Winona says, turning away.

“I’m serious,” he insists. “Gary should have never got in with these people--”

She turns swiftly back to him, accusing. “And it’s so different for you?”

He shuts his mouth with a snap, works his jaw again like it’s going to turn back time and she won’t have said that. “It is,” he says carefully. “I didn’t have a wife to endanger, for one thing.”

“For another?” She knows she’s pushing. She’s wondering how much he’ll tell her.

He sits heavily, then, takes a long sip of the coffee, and looks up at her. “You really want to know?”

She sits back down too and smiles at him, as a sort of apology, “I gotta distract myself from this Gary thing, I guess. Might as well figure out if I should be worrying about you, too.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m fine, Winona.”

She twists her mouth at him, fighting a nostalgic smile. He never did know how to take sincere concern. “Art doesn’t think so.”

“Art can mind his own goddamn business,” Raylan says. “I tendered my resignation to him, specifically so that I would not be his problem and now he’s got that sharpshooter on me all the time and--”

“You mean Tim?” she asks. “He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, I bet he is. He’s damn hard to shake too.”

She laughs. “And what were you tryin’ to shake him for?”

“Never you mind,” he shoots back, fighting another smile. Then he makes this face at her that she knows means he wants to do something, but just can’t allow himself to, and says, “Listen, I should actually get going.”

He takes another sip of her coffee and stands, pulling out his wallet, she thinks it might be the old one she bought him for Christmas when his really old one started falling apart, and she loves that not everything about him seems to have changed. 

He takes a card from the now cracking leather, but before he can hand it over she asks, “She gonna buy you a new one of those soon?”

He looks down at the wallet, then back up at her and smiles like they have a secret now. “She wants to, but I won’t let her.” 

He proffers the card, a clean white thing with small letters and bold type. She takes it and reads it. It’s got his name on it, a phone number, and that he works for something called Brogie Security. She looks up at him with a question on her face.

“Have Gary call that number when he gets home. I swear to you, Winona, I want to help him out of this, but he’s got to work with me.” His expression is very serious and she sighs, knowing that he’s telling her the truth.

“All right,” she says and sets his card on the table.

He looks like he’s about to leave, eyes cast towards the door, but he looks back at her, just one last thing. He says, “And... maybe don’t tell him I’m with Boyd Crowder.”

She nods and lets him kiss her on the cheek. She doesn’t go to the door with him. He’s always been the kind who can let himself out.

She sits at her kitchen table and looks at that clean, new card, and wonders why on earth he said, “with,” instead of “work for.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art gets his answers and the Harlan three get some alone time.

A week after Winona came to his office, stood there and told him, with a completely sincere expression, “I think Raylan’s really okay, Art,” he finally gets a reason to bring Boyd Crowder in for a chat.

It’s actually a formal interview, and Art had pulled maybe a few too many strings in order to compel Crowder to appear, but if all that got him a chance to talk to Raylan, even for a minute, he was willing to use some of the good will he’s been saving up over the years.

They picked up the boy in Corbin, where he’d been selling a product, really only tangentially related to Crowder’s shadier outfit run by a man named Wynn Duffy. The boy had skipped out on his parole officer and a halfway house in Huntsville, Alabama. He flatly denied, with the vehemence of the truly converted, or truly scared, any association with Boyd Crowder or his organization.

Art brought him in anyway.

To Art’s extreme consternation, Crowder arrives without his body man in tow, smiling like he’s some kind of politician, there for a photo op. He walks right in, introduces himself to Rachel and says he’s looking for Chief Deputy Art Mullen. Rachel keeps her expression on an even keel and takes Boyd back to the conference room, giving Art a look through the blinds on the glass door.

Art gives her one back and steps through. “Mr. Crowder,” he says. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Crowder gives him a smile that's strained on purpose, “Well, you didn’t really give me much of a choice, here, Chief--oh,” he holds out a hand, palm up, “may I call you Chief, Mr. Mullen?”

Art glances up from where he’d been pretending to sort through the papers in his file. “I’d prefer it,” he answers and only then does he motion for Crowder to sit.

The man does, with some relish, Art notes, and looks around the room like he’s never seen a place so interesting. “Now, this is real nice,” he says. “I was in an ATF office once, didn’t look half so nice as this place. All sorts of particle board cubicles and fluorescent lighting. I don’t know how people can work under such circumstances.”

Art wonders if all boys raised in Harlan can talk shit all day long, or if this man and Raylan Givens are just peas in some kind of pod of assholery, as he says, “Well, these are Marshal offices, we like to pretend we got some kind of budget for appearances.”

Crowder grins. He palms a pocket watch he’s got tucked into the pocket of his over-the-top three piece suit and replies, “Don’t we all,” like they’re friends now.

Art smiles, not quite enough to be in on it and says, very officially, “Mr. Crowder I’d like to talk to you about a Mr. Aaron Thornton, who--while he denies any association with your organization--”

Crowder raises a finger, leaning over the table, and says, “Now I’m gonna stop you right there, Chief and just tell you, no.”

“No?” Art peers at him closely.

“No, I won’t be talking about that individual today,” Crowder says simply.

“Then, if I may ask, Mr. Crowder, what the hell are you here for?”

Crowder smiles again, in a familiar way that Art doesn’t like at all. It’s friendly, but there’s an undercurrent of meanness to it as well, of deviousness. “Well, besides the fact that you only compelled me to appear, not answer any particular line of questioning--and I would like to point out the show of good will that I am displaying today by arriving without my usual cadre of lawyers--I am here, because I know very well what you want to talk about Mr. Mullen, and it is not Aaron Thornton.” Crowder inclines his head, almost winking, though that would be much too obvious, and adds, “Whoever he may be.”

“What is it that you think I want to talk about, Mr. Crowder?” Art crosses his arms over his chest and leans back a bit in his chair.

Crowder tilts his head now, and spreads his hands, palms flat towards the table. “Now, seeing as we’ve got such a good friend in common these days, Chief, why don’t you just go ahead and call me Boyd? It is former Deputy Raylan Givens, our mutual friend, that you called this meeting to see, isn’t it? I’m sorry I failed to bring him with me today. I can see how disappointed you are.”

Art knows it’s quite obvious from his face how pissed off he is. He shouldn’t be very surprised, though, Raylan knows how the Marshals operate and Crowder, he’s sharp enough to have stayed alive and on top for this long.

Art suppresses a heavy sigh before he responds, “Well, even if I did call this meeting to speak to Raylan, I won’t be talking about him to you.”

Crowder flashes his teeth, more like a snarl than a smile. “Then it seems we are at an impasse.” His smile turns real in a flash as he adds, almost as an afterthought, “I do want to thank you, and your organization, though, for transferring Raylan back home. You know, I don’t believe we’d be anywhere near our current situation, if you hadn’t made that interesting decision. Having Raylan around again, after so long away, has made my wife and I very happy.”

Art decides, in that moment, to take a calculated risk. He asks, keeping his tone light, “So, you’re both fucking him? It’s not that kind of thing where you’re keepin’ him around to distract the missus from any--indiscretions?”

Crowder’s eyes go cold and Art finally understands why his boys never cross him. He blinks once and the intensity of that frozen anger lifts slightly. When he speaks, his words are thick, as though he wasn’t able to only a moment before. “I understand, Chief Deputy, that it’s your job to make deductive leaps such as the one you so vulgarly put to me just a moment ago. But I’m going to ask you, just this once, never to disrespect my wife, whom I love very much, or Raylan Givens, whom I love in much the same manner, ever again. If you do not, or if anyone on your staff does not, I will make it my personal mission of justified retribution to destroy your life and career. Do you understand me?”

Art doesn’t answer. Crowder’s made himself and his motives quite clear, and Art knows that he knows that. “Will you tell me how Raylan became such an important part of your life, Boyd?”

The side of Crowder’s mouth quirks at the use of his first name, and nearly all that ice is gone from his expression. He clasps his hands together and lays them on the table in front of him. “You’re an interesting person, Chief. Care to tell me why you care so much about what Raylan is doing and why?”

Art shrugs. He only answers to fish for more information. “He was one of my deputies.”

“For all of five minutes,” Boyd returns. 

Now Art can be fairly sure he went right to them. He wasn’t picked up, he wasn’t coerced.

“I also used to teach firearms instruction with him at Glynco. We were friends. Our wives were close,” Art says, with the full knowledge that Crowder already knows this.

“I’ve always found Raylan’s casual selfishness and apparent disregard for things, mostly rules and people, which he finds to be bullshit to belie a certain grounded morality and fierce loyalty to his friends and loved ones,” Crowder says, pushing his clasped hands forward, like the words he just spoke were a gift straight from God. “Would you agree?”

Art considers the man carefully. “I might. If I did, I’d ask you why you feel as though you have the right to take him from his occupation, what I know he considered to be something like a true calling, and mire him in the world in which you and your lovely wife operate.”

Boyd smiles now, grins more like, as though remembering something wonderful. “I will tell you, Art, that in no way did I ever think to do such a thing. Raylan is where he is now, not because of anything Ava or I did, but because he offered. And he did that because he wanted to.” Boyd stands now, lifts his watch by the chain and opens it with a practiced motion. He inclines his head and says, “I’ll leave you to deduce all the rest. I have to be going.” He extends a hand that Art sees no real reason not to take. “It was real nice to meet you finally, Art. I’m glad we were able to have that talk.”

Art can’t really stop himself from returning the man’s smile. “Likewise, I suppose, Boyd.”

Crowder lets himself out and as soon as Art goes back into his office, ready for a tall glass from the bottle he keeps in his desk drawer, he gets a phone call.

“Chief Deputy Mullen,” Art says into the phone.

“Art,” Raylan’s voice comes across the line, wry and strong. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to your thing,” he says and Art is annoyed they’re not even trying to keep up a pretext. “Boyd sort of insisted that I not.”

“You in the habit of taking orders from him now?” Art asks then wishes he’d been a little more circumspect.

“You in the habit of taking orders from your wife, Art?” Raylan’s tone is a little harsher now, annoyed. “Everyone’s got people they like to please. Jesus. I thought Boyd was gonna explain it to you.”

“He did, Raylan,” Art sighs. “As much as I think he wanted to. I’m just bein’ an asshole, which I believe is my right in this situation.”

There’s a pause and Raylan says, “I suppose.” Then there’s another pause and Art can just imagine him scratching at his neck or rubbing at his eyes or playing with the brim of that stupid hat, before he says, “Listen, so, I was hoping--and I do understand you gotta do what you gotta do when shit comes up--but I was hoping maybe you could put that sharpshooter on somebody else’s back for a while? I promise I won’t be pissed if you lay him on me when, like, real shit is happening with these people. I’m just... kinda tired of seeing his face all the time when we’re eating and at the condo and, like, all the time.”

“He’s good isn’t he?” Art asks proudly.

“Yeah, he’s fuckin’ good. Don’t you need him on real cases?”

“You don’t think eastern Kentucky’s biggest crime and real estate kingpin is a real case, Raylan?”

“Well, I sure as shit don’t think his bodyguard and boyfriend is, Art. And that’s who you’ve got the kid on twenty-four seven. I’m not even with Boyd all the time and you know that. This was anybody else in any other situation in any other syndicate in the states, your boy would be dead, now lay off and let the fuckin’ feebs handle Boyd for a while.”

Art knows there were a great many good points in that little speech, so he says, levelly, “I’ll consider it.”

“Thanks, Art.”

Art smiles and says, “Goodbye, Raylan.” He feels comfortable with meaning it.

 

Raylan is just hanging up the phone when Boyd exits the courthouse. He’s wearing the heavier suit that Ava made him get just the other week, as fall is setting in quickly, and it’s got these faint, fine pinstripes that makes Raylan’s legs look twice as long. He looks goddamn amazing and Boyd loves the hell out of him.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says, all smiles, but is careful not to touch him.

“Hey, yourself,” Raylan replies. “Have a nice chat?”

“Nicer towards the end than it was at the beginning,” Boyd answers. “You?”

Raylan shrugs. “Mine was pretty much shitty all the way through.” He grimaces and says, “Or, it felt that way. Art seemed all right.”

Boyd puts a hand on his shoulder, draws him nearer. “He’ll be fine.”

“I know that,” Raylan grumbles, jerking away. They’re both aware they’re not just talking about Art.

Boyd smiles, a little sadly, just for Raylan, and says as they walk to the car, “Let’s go to Harlan tonight.”

Raylan shrugs again and says, “All right.” He never cares where they are, just that he’s with them. Boyd thinks that’s downright amazing. Raylan turns to him now, as they walk, and glances at the watch in his pocket. “That why you wore your Harlan watch today, Mr. Businessman?”

Boyd laughs. “This watch ain’t just for Harlan, son,” he says. “It’s for special occasions, too. I told you how much I was anticipating this meeting, didn’t I?”

Raylan’s eyes are just twinkling. “So it’s a lucky watch.”

“No,” Boyd returns patiently. “It’s special.”

Raylan grins and says, “Okay, Boyd.” There seems to be no end to the amusement he gains from Boyd’s sartorial choices. 

Raylan stops in his tracks as they come to the foot of the courthouse steps. He doesn't exactly go for his sidearm, that would be too obvious, but Boyd can tell from the way he's standing that he's on the alert.

"What?" Boyd asks softly.

"The sharpshooter," Raylan murmurs and Boyd looks ahead to see a young blonde man, walking across the road at them, dressed in a black henley t-shirt and cargo pants.

Boyd knew the boy had been following them, well Raylan mostly, on Art's orders, but he'd never seen his face with any kind of clarity before. It seemed too young for the crease in his brow, for the hard edge to his eyes. "They must've pulled him right out of the shit," he murmurs and Raylan gives him a weird look. They've never really talked about Boyd's time in the army. 

"Art must've called him off right away," Raylan says, then smiles as the young man approaches them. "Deputy," he says clearly, tipping his hat and, Boyd's not going to lie, he always gets a little turned on when Raylan pulls his cowboy shit.

The sharpshooter does not look impressed. He looks over at Boyd and says, "I suppose you think you're a lucky man, Mr. Crowder."

"I know that I am, Deputy," Boyd returns with a wide smile. "A man like me can't just be smart. You gotta catch some breaks too." And Boyd knows that he has. He's grateful for them.

"What are you gonna do if your luck runs out?" The kid must think he's being intimidating. It's actually pretty adorable.

Boyd slips his hands into his pockets. "Well, son, that's what the smarts are for, and Raylan."

"You leave me out of this," Raylan mutters, keeping an eye on the kid.

"That's not likely now," the sharpshooter says, though everyone present knows that. 

"What's your point, son?" Boyd is genuinely curious.

The deputy turns to Raylan now and says, "You can't off a tail like me--and Art specifically told me to be sloppy so you'd know--you won't get far with these people. You might wanna be in all the way, Givens, or you'd probably better back the fuck out now."

Raylan frowns at the kid. "Man, you're a piece of work, son. Were you just waiting for a bullet from me?" he asks, then swears, "Jesus, does Art know you're this close to the edge?"

The kid blinks, then shrugs. "I'm just sayin'," he says, like it's nothing.

Raylan runs a hand across his mouth, which is a dead giveaway that he's been rattled. "Yeah, thanks for the advice." The sharpshooter moves to walk on by, but Raylan calls, "Hey, kid." 

He turns, obviously not pleased at the diminutive. 

Raylan's eyes are hard and his hand is on his weapon now as he says, "Anything I did or didn't do here was as a courtesy to Art. He wouldn't have put you in that situation if he didn't know me, or think he understood what it is I'm was capable of. Next time, you tell him, he better forget pretty much everything he thought he knew about me."

The sharpshooter quirks a funny little smile at Raylan and replies, "All right, asshole." He nudges his coat back to show his badge, making it look convincingly as though it wasn't on purpose, and walks away, squinting in the sun that's just come out from behind some cloud cover.

Boyd waits a beat and turns to Raylan. "So that's how you law types get your kicks, huh?"

Raylan gives him a sheepish look and replies, "Yeah, I guess so. Never been on the other side of it before, though."

Boyd suddenly wants to kiss him very much.

When they get in the car, Raylan taking the wheel, as that’s what’s expected for a bodyguard, and Boyd in the passenger seat because he hates sitting in the back by himself, Boyd turns to him and says, “Raylan, do you know what I love?”

Raylan gives him a quizzical look. He speak slowly, like he’s not sure he’s walking into a verbal trap on this one. “What?”

Boyd leans in, swiftly, with much too large a grin on his face. “Tinted windows,” he says just before he kisses him.

 

The boys pick up Ava at the condo, in the process,switching from the Chrysler, which they drive around to impress people, to the red F-150, which they actually prefer. After having Michael, her favorite muscle from the front entrance, throw her weekend bag into the back, she climbs into the cab where they’re waiting and asks, “You get rid of him for good?”

Raylan smiles from the driver’s seat. “Until you assholes do somethin’ real shady.”

She grins, propping her arms on her knees and leaning forward into the front. She replies, looking at Boyd, “Oh, I don’t think we have anything big planned ‘til at least next spring, ain’t that right, baby?”

Boyd leans back in the front seat, dropping his hand behind him to catch hers and squeeze. He looks a little flushed and his eyes are sort of glazed over, pupils larger than usual. She fights a smile and puts a pout in her voice. “You two get started without me again?”

Raylan stays quiet, still not easy enough to know when she’s joking, walking on glass all the time trying not to upset them. But Boyd smiles indulgently and glances back at her. “Sorry, baby.”

“No you’re not.”

He laughs, then looks over at Raylan, swinging his hand up, and out of Ava’s grasp, to clasp at the back of Raylan’s too tense neck. “Calm down, darlin’,” he says, voice loose and soothing. “She ain’t mad.”

“Well, I can’t see her face to tell, can I?” Raylan sounds more like he’s pouting than she did.

“You want me to drive for a while? So you two can fool around in the back, even things up some?” Ava rolls her eyes at Boyd the Peacekeeper. 

“Maybe she wants to fool around with you.”

Ava lays back on the bench in the back of the cab and huffs a laugh to the ceiling. She, kicks off her heels and pushes her feet against the driver’s side rear door, the half one that opens on the opposite side. “Had fifteen years to do that,” she murmurs.

“More like twelve,” Boyd says. “It’s sixteen now, honey, and four in the army.”

“And don’t talk about me like I ain’t here.”

Raylan pulls over at the first rest stop. They’re barely out of Lexington.

When he gets into the back, get his long legs up on the seat on either side of her, and smiles down, she feels a laugh bubble up from low in her chest and she has to tilt her head back, closing her eyes, just to release it right. “You just didn’t want to drive, huh?” she asks, drawing her thigh up across his hip.

“Mmmm,” he says, and kisses her, not really an answer.

Boyd doesn’t say a goddamn word.

 

Raylan wouldn’t do anything so untoward as get off with Boyd’s wife in the backseat of his truck cab while the man is driving. So, they mess around for a few minutes, pretty much about as long as he and Boyd did when they were sitting crammed up in the front seat of that loaded 300, and just then lie together for the rest of the trip.

Raylan buries his face in Ava’s long, curling hair, and breathes her in until he’s dozing, his head pillowed by one arm, his other draped loosely over Ava’s waist. She didn’t have such a trying morning as some other people had, so he knows she’s awake, but she doesn’t move because she knows he doesn’t want her to.

She’s tracing little circles in the carpet on the floor of the cab with her fingers and, as Raylan zones in and out, he hears them talking about the weekend, dinner that night, and maybe she’ll call Helen to come over on Saturday. Mags Bennett wants to talk about something and Boyd hopes Dickie won’t be there to fuck things up and generally make a nuisance. Ava’s sure Mags won’t bring him after last time.

He falls asleep for real to them talking about the pawn shops in Corbin and Cumberland, the man they have in charge of that now called Ava this morning. Nothing’s wrong, he just checked in...

He wakes when Ava twists in his arms, a slow turn, and kisses the side of his slackened mouth. He smiles into her lips, sleepily. “There?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

The car’s not moving and he hears the sound of the door opening from the driver’s side. Ava sits up, reaches for her shoes. He knows she won’t put them back on. Boyd always jokes in Harlan about her staying barefoot and in the kitchen, even though he’s cooking half the time too.

Raylan’s legs are cramped from curling up for so long on the narrow bench. He stretches and smiles up at Ava. Boyd sticks his head in the now open door and says, “Ain’t you a picture. You have a nice nap?”

Raylan makes a face then says, “Thanks for driving.”

Ava ruffles his hair. “Just ‘cause you have to do it all week, don’t mean you got to _all_ the time, honey.”

Boyd shrugs as he turns away. “I always liked the drive anyway, darlin’.” 

Raylan flexes the tight muscles in his back as he sits up and climbs from the cab. His suit, though he’d taken the jacket off and tossed it in the front seat with his hat, feels too constricting and now all rumpled. These two and their goddamn appearances. “Can I get out of this thing now?” he whines.

They both smile at him wickedly.

“Leave the shit in the back, baby,” Ava calls, reaching for her keys as she climbs the porch steps.

Boyd comes around to Raylan’s side as he’s shutting the door to the truck and snags his arm, pulling him towards the house. “Don’t have to tell me twice,” he murmurs, laughter in his eyes.

Raylan's tie is loose around his neck when they walk, together, through the door. Ava drops her shoes just inside and they undress each other up the stairs.

They make love, all three getting off, and Ava going twice, on the gigantic bed that Raylan is almost positive they bought that way just in case he ever decided to visit. When they are finished, they lay together, with the two of them on either side of him, and Raylan can't get his brain to turn off.

He thinks he probably shouldn't have taken that nap in the car if they were just going to fuck and sleep all afternoon and through the evening. The sun is setting behind the hills and it seems so early, another thing Raylan's forgotten about this place.

The night's going to come on soon and that, especially when there's a large moon, always makes Raylan think of that night on the holler road. It's funny, because even though he didn't remember for so long, it's now his most distinctive memory of Harlan, the one he can call up with the most clarity.

Maybe it's being near Boyd so much and the awakening of all the things he felt back then and left behind, or buried, or whatever it was forgotten memories did with themselves. Raylan doesn't know.

Boyd shifts next to him now, as though in his sleep. But he must be at least half awake because he presses his lips behind Raylan's ear again--now his favorite place--and whispers, "I can hear you thinkin'. Stop that...'n' go to sleep."

Raylan smiles. "It's early," he murmurs, nuzzling down to Boyd's neck. He's not sure when he's going to get used to this, but he still hasn't. His heart's pounding, slow, but hard and nervous, like it's the first time and not the hundredth--he thinks they must have fucked at least that much by now.

He lets his mind wander, closing his eyes as Ava presses closer in her doze. He thinks about the kid, the sharpshooter deputy from this morning. He wants to tell Art about his deathwish. He knows he can do no such thing now. He thinks maybe he'll tell Winona. She can tell Art. He's got to see her to wrap up the real estate shit anyway.

Raylan frowns, feeling himself tense as he thinks about that meeting. Winona shouldn't have been there, though she was the one who got Gary--the fucker--to sign in the end, even as Raylan was explaining it to him, plying a stone-faced Boyd to agree to terms they both and Ava had already decided on days beforehand. Raylan didn't like the play acting, he didn't like appearances. But he knew what they were for.

Ava hooks a thigh sleepily across his leg. "Relax, honey," she croons.

He doesn't like Winona to think that's what it's like all the time. She looked at him so sadly. He won’t be able to talk to her again after the next time.

He told Ava and Boyd he doesn't want to do that shit again. He only did it for Winona.

They looked at him sadly too, but he can't figure out why. There was never any pressure. They always said that about the business. He never felt any pressure, so he didn't know why they'd look like that.

He wants to ask them, but they're sleeping now, dead weights across his limbs. 

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling fan for about ten seconds before he thinks of the hospital in Nicaragua and has to climb from the bed. 

There’s a red chair that Ava has near the window, a cushy one with clean lines, that she likes to read in on sunny afternoons. Raylan wraps himself in the decorative blanket thrown over the back of the chair and sits in it, staring out into the darkening sky, for maybe five minutes before Boyd stirs and realizes he’s not in the bed.

Raylan does this too much. He knows they worry about him. He’s never wanted them to do that.

Boyd leaves the bed silently and doesn’t speak until he’s standing next to Raylan, eyes on the window too. He sinks his hand into Raylan’s hair slowly and Raylan closes his eyes as Boyd tells him, “You need to get out for a while, that’s okay, darlin’. We understand.”

Raylan shakes his head, twisting Boyd’s fingers in his hair. It’s a lot, but it’s not too much. He’s all right. “That’s not what I want.”

“It’s all right if it’s what you need anyway,” Boyd says.

Raylan thinks of the night last week when he woke shaking from the bloody jungle. He thought he’d stopped that months ago. He remembers being alone with that in Miami. He leans his head against Boyd’s bare stomach. “What I need is right here.”

Raylan finds Boyd’s other hand and presses the back of the fingers to his lips. Boyd says, “You know, I think I only believe that about half the time.”

Ava stirs on the bed, twists up in the sheets, and looks over at them curiously, with sleepy eyes. “What are you doin’?” she asks.

Raylan gets up from the chair and pulls Boyd back over to the bed with him. He leans over Ava and kisses her hard enough she’s blinking her eyes open after. He looks up at Boyd, who’s standing at the foot of the bed watching them, mouth slightly open, lips wet.

“I want to fuck until my brain shuts off,” Raylan tells him.

Ava laughs softly and murmurs, winding her arms around his neck, and says “You’re exhausting, honey.”

He smiles down at her, but looks back up when Boyd’s finger curl under his chin. “And we’ll talk about it after?”

Raylan thinks, maybe long after, but he smiles softly and nods. Ava’s looking up between them, frowning like she missed something. He’s beginning to realize those are the only times she might really get mad.

Boyd looks uncertain. “Because this isn’t just--”

“I know, Boyd,” Raylan says. He doesn’t need to hear that. He knows what it is and what it isn’t.

Ava’s already starting, mad or no. 

When he wants it bad, she always goes right for that place behind his ear. Her tongue is wet, her breath very warm. “We love you,” she says.

Raylan feels everything inside him loosen, everything around him sort of expand. He watches Boyd and lets himself smile. “Come love me,” he urges.

And Boyd goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely betas. I'm so super glad that I was able to finally, FINALLY finish this mother. And with double the word count than I had originally intended. Thanks to all who've read and commented. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks must go to a cadre of beta readers that I have thrust this story upon in the YEAR since I began it: rillalicious, thornfield girl, engage_protocol, and scioscribe. Thank you, ladies! <3


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